


Goddess of War

by manic_intent



Category: 300 (2006), 300 (2014)
Genre: A sort of D/S verse, Alternate Universe, Dom/sub, F/M, Good God did I just write het, That AU where Artemisia is a demigoddess, This movie, What the Hell, and Themistokles really can't help bending to her will, it ate my brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Themistokles has heard that Artemisia is beautiful, of course, but up close, he thinks - no. She isn't beautiful. There's something too sharp and hungry about her face, something too fierce about her eyes. She doesn't have Gorgo's queenly, imperious beauty, nor does she have the delicate, symmetrical features so favoured by Athenian women these days. Artemisia is no Aphrodite, no Demeter, no Hera: she is precisely, Themistokles thinks faintly, exactly as she is named: she is the Mistress of the Wildlands. She is the Huntress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goddess of War

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. My main takeaways from the 300:Rise of an Empire film -  
> #1 So much testosterone  
> #2 The secret weapon is a fucking HORSE? REALLY?  
> #3 Hahaha what boob plate strikes again. Seriously guys, let's have some proper girl's armor, not armor that will break your breastbone if smacked.  
> #4 This film needed more Fassbender. 
> 
> And then I went on tumblr and found out that Artemisia IRL was really this awesome, cunning, supersmart strategy genius who was a QUEEN (i.e., no rapey slave girl backstory), the only female naval commander in Xerxes' army (and the smartest one) and whom Xerxes really listened to. I seriously doubt she would have killed herself over some guy who didn't return her love though (which is apparently how she died IRL), so I guess her 'end' in the film was cooler, but yeah. 300, did you really have to do the rapey backstory, really...
> 
> And so, idk, I felt like writing fix-it fic, even though I haven't written het in something like fifteen years, and yes. Enjoy. I guess. LOL.
> 
> NOTE: Despite alpha/beta/omega etc actually being Greek terms and so are actually appropriate to this fic, I decided to play around with the A/B/O - D/S fanon again and dispense with the usual fanon titles.

I.

Themistokles doesn't really understand at first why he agreed to go - alone and unarmed - onto Artemisia's flagship. The Persians haven't exactly fought with honour to date, and Artemisia has better reasons than most to exact vengeance on any Greek man she comes across. It's a gesture of courage, foolish as it might be, and it'll be good for morale - assuming he comes back in one piece.

Assuming.

He only fully understands _why_ he agreed when he boards the ship, and sees _her_ , up close, for the first time. Themistokles has heard that Artemisia is beautiful, of course, but up close, he thinks - no. She isn't beautiful. There's something too sharp and hungry about her face, something too fierce about her eyes. She doesn't have Gorgo's queenly, imperious beauty, nor does she have the delicate, symmetrical features so favoured by Athenian women these days. Artemisia is no Aphrodite, no Demeter, no Hera: she is precisely, Themistokles thinks faintly, exactly as she is named: she is the Mistress of the Wildlands. She is the Huntress. 

They exchange a greeting that he barely remembers, and he follows her when beckoned into the captain's quarters of her ship. The snap of the door as it closes jerks him out of the dream: Themistokles blinks sharply, shaking his head, taking in a short, sharp breath - then he realizes the truth of _her_ , of his mad impulse to come alone onto her hunting grounds, more. He knows that he has known her all his life, even if they have just met. 

"You... you are _hemitheoi_... No, _hemithea_. How-"

Artemisia lets out a high, sharp laugh, like the harsh, derisive bark of a wolf. "How was I not killed at birth? Oh, they _tried_. Perhaps you've heard." 

Themistokles shudders. He _has_ heard. "Not all of it."

"Oh?" Artemisia's tone turns mocking. "Which part did you hear of, then? The part where I was born to the satrap of Halicarnassus, where my father named me his heir because of my nature, despite my sex? The part where our ally, Rhodes, objected to my father's decision and demanded my death? The part where Halicarnassus was burned, my family raped and murdered, and I was sold onto a slaveship because the hoplites were, one and all, mere _anthrōpos_ and could not kill me after all, even when they used me?"

Wishing that he had at least thought to bring his blade, Themistokles grit his teeth, shuddering again. He can feel the _hemithea_ 's will bearing down on him, like an inexorable pressure, like the weight of all of the sea, and his knees feel weak, his stomach ill; but he will not yield. His pride demands it. Curling his fingers tightly into his palms, Themistokles gasps, "The last." 

"Mm." The pressure is gone then, all at once, and Themistokles nearly staggers back, sucking in shallow, grateful breaths. Artemisia stalks around the table in her cabin, its centrepiece an exquisite map of the seas and the coastline. Little models of Persian ships surround a pitiful number of Grecian ships, and Themistokles knows without looking closely at it that his situation is obviously hopeless, in the long run, no matter how many tricks he can think of.

Somehow, the naval situation seems to matter little. "You did not let me finish my question."

Artemisia's cold, huntress' eyes dart up to his face. "Oh?"

"I was going to say, I have never heard of a, ah, female _hemitheoi_." 

"You've never heard of one surviving to maturity, you mean," Artemisia shoots back. "Your world has room only for various Heracleses, Perseuses and Theseuses. I have heard that King Leonidas is _hemitheoi_ , but," she shrugs, "Give or take a few days and he will be no more. Then Athens will burn, and Greece will belong to Xerxes."

Her matter-of-fact tone sends a cold finger of fear down Themistokles' spine. "So why have you called me here, if your victory is so assured?"

Artemisia traces her fingers along the edge of the table, settling upon it: her sensuality is raw and primal the way Themistokles has never seen so in a woman - there's no artifice to it, only hunger, and a dangerous hunger: her lust has little to do with sex and everything to do with power. "You can see the situation that you are in. For each Grecian man I kill, you need to kill a thousand of mine. For each ship, a hundred. And something tells me that you will take the deaths of your men harder than I will take mine."

"And so?" Themistokles can feel her will bearing down on him again, but this time it's different: it's not the hammer blow that it was. It's a caress, a siren-call, and he is no Odysseus, to know when to bind himself fast; he can feel himself stir under his loincloth and surely it will be the death of him, surely. His skin feels too hot, too small, but he fights to breathe, fights to meet her eyes. Fights to stay where he is.

"You have fought with a grace and intelligence that I find sorely lacking among my own higher command," Artemisia notes, her voice once like silk, then again like steel, dizzying. "Killing you would be a waste, and Xerxes appreciates talent - as do I. Think of your family in Athens. Your woman. Won't they prefer you to live?" 

"My one love is Greece," Themistokles manages to spit out, though it takes all his will to do so, as Artemisia slides off the table and circles back towards him. Her gait is longer now, loping, no longer pretending at being remotely girlish. It suits her better, Gods, it suits her. "And I've readied her and her navy all these years, waiting for you."

It's not what he meant to say, and Artemisia laughs, again with that short, harsh bark, even as she steps close, and then closer, until all he can see and smell is her. Artemisia doesn't smell like the women of Athens, of scented oils and delicate fragrances. Hers is the scent of leather and sword-oil, of steel. She had only just bothered to shed her armour for this half-shoulder dress that clings to her curves, Themistokles thinks, and as much as the sheer, silver fabric hugs her lean frame it does not fit her. 

"I like that. The thought of you pining, all this while. Waiting for _me_." Artemisia's tone is mocking again, but her eyes are wide and dark, the pressure of her will absolute. Now he kneels, even though he gasps and tries to fight it, and she smirks as he slides his hands helplessly up her thighs, hitching up her dress - then Artemisia yelps as Themistokles manages to wrench enough control to bite her on her inner thigh. 

The scent of her is maddening, so close, but with the taste of blood in his mouth, somehow, barely, Themistokles manages to hold on to himself. "Stop that," he snarls, and has the pleasure of watching Artemisia blink at him, and this time her smile is slow and sultry and languid, as she cups his cheeks with her sword-roughened palms. 

"Oh, my sweet," Artemisia purrs, and he hears her voice and an echo both, one that hums deep within his soul and demands his answer. "My lion, my pet," and Themistokles nearly sobs at the caress of her will, the ache of his desire. His cock has soaked a patch through his loincloth, pressing hard against the fabric, and he wants - he _needs_ to give in. Themistokles is but a mere mortal man, and Artemisia is _hemithea_. He needs her.

"No," Themistokles gasps instead, "No."

Artemisia's smile widens. "This is why I must have you, my pet." her thumbs stroke his cheekbones lightly, even as Themistokles inches his hands upwards. "You will fight me at every turn. You will challenge me. But in the end, I will still break you."

"Will you?" Themistokles grits out. "Then who will be left to fight you?" He chokes down a moan, and manages to hiss, "You... don't need... to-"

The pressure eases back down to a caress, as Artemisia's hands slide down to his shaking shoulders, unclasping his cloak and pushing it off to pool around him. She slips out of her sandals next, and hooks the toes of her left foot into his loincloth, tugging it deftly loose, and then Themistokles is naked but for his sandals, and still kneeling, but he barely feels the ache in his knees. His hands are still on Artemisia's knees, under her dress, and now her hands are curled tight over the nape of his neck. It's so good, so _right_ , that Themistokles nearly weeps.

"Prove this to me, then," Artemisia commands him. "Convince me that there is a better way." 

Giving in is like a sweet drug. Themistokles pushes her dress higher, groaning to find that she wears nothing beneath it, and seals his mouth between her legs, nosing and hungry. Artemisia bucks against his jaw with another high, harsh bark of laughter, bracing her knees against Themistokles' shoulders as he tongues her mound, chasing the taste of her, her scent, maddening before, now worse. 

He drinks like a dying man, lapping hard at her folds, then sucking when Artemisia snarls and digs her nails into his shoulders, rocking against his mouth when he uses the hint of teeth. Themistokles is drowning and he cannot help it: duty and his love of Greece are a dull whisper in the back of his mind - there is nothing to his world now but the urgency of Artemisia's pleasure. Even his own lust seems irrelevant. 

Themistokles thrusts his tongue within her with a hungry moan, then again, when Artemisia hisses and jerks at his hair, tugging him up and more firmly against her as she rides him, keening and panting; she has to be making enough noise for all of her flagship to hear. Good, Themistokles thinks fiercely, _good_. Let them hear. Let them know who the _hemithea_ has chosen for her bed. Let them envy him.

The fierce pride that surges within him at that thought startles him, and he falters for a moment, then chokes as she growls and rakes her fingers over his back. Themistokles renews his efforts, pressing a thumb up against his mouth, then pushing a finger within her when Artemisia merely growls in approval, then another, until she's snarling as her fingers tug painfully into his hair, riding out her first crest of ecstasy on his fingers and tongue. Themistokles continues to lap at her folds even as she settles, her breathing heaving in long, loosening gasps above him, then Artemisia laughs and steps back, flushed and smirking, looking him over with raking eyes. 

"Not bad so far," Artemisia drawls, and it's the challenge in her tone rather than her will that makes Themistokles scramble to his feet, to pin her against the hull of her ship and hitch up her dress. Artemisia grabs the haft of a display weapon affixed to the hull and curls her long, powerful thighs around his waist, dragging him forward and into her: it's Themistokles who lets out a gasping cry as Artemisia laughs again and groans and growls, snapping her heel against his back as though urging on a horse. 

Themistokles bares his teeth at her but obliges, not bothering with delicacy or subtlety, pounding her roughly enough against the hull that a hollow echo of the impact shudders around him each time he buries himself deep, and still Artemisia laughs, that maddening, wild laugh, and even like this she is hunting him. Even now, her will has yoked him tight as their moans and cries climb higher, louder. 

Furious at himself, Themistokles jerks back, agony as it is to pull away, but Artemisia merely grins at him, mockingly, and he finds that he's moving before he can think, bending her roughly up against the table, ripping at her dress. The flimsy fabric tears quickly, and Themistokles groans in relief as he sheathes himself back within her, making her arch and let out a harsh cry as his thrust punches her a hand's breadth up over the table, scattering Persian and Grecian ships alike. 

Artemisia laughs again, this time in wolfish delight, and for a moment Themistokles thinks that he's broken free, that he's-

"Stop," she drawls, and before he knows it, Themistokles realizes that he's frozen where he is, balls deep within her tight and welcoming wet heat, and it - this - is torture. Artemisia shoots him a sly grin over his shoulder and she rolls her hips luxuriously, grinding against him, then clenching, and her grin widens sharply as Themistokles lets out a strangled sob. "You want to finish, don't you?"

"Ar-Artemisia-"

"Beg me," Artemisia commands, and even as Themistokles thinks to protest she clenches down around him again, and he's babbling, pleading; it's all Themistokles can do not to promise her the world but he knows he's so close to it, too close, and she knows it.

When finally Artemisia drawls, "Get back down on your knees," Themistokles has half-expected this all along, but he still whimpers as he obeys, sliding out of her, stumbling onto his knees. 

"Please, Mistress, _please_ ," Themistokles whispers, and it's a mantra, like devotion, like worship, especially when Artemisia turns around, lounging against the table; she has a Grecian ship between thumb and forefinger, and she's grinning cruelly at him as she gives it a slow lick, from stern to bow and back. His cock aches in envy, dripping onto the deck, but Themistokles is pinned to the ground by the sheer pressure of her will, no longer seductive, now again a weapon. 

Artemisia eyes him for a long moment, until he runs out of breath and his voice is raw from begging, then she presses the ball of her foot hard against his cock. "Come," she demands, and he obeys her, jerking up with a low gasp as he spills against his belly, against her foot, over the deck. Artemisia steps back, her teeth flashing white against the bow of the little model ship as her fingers press between her thighs, fondling herself until she shivers and arches again, open-mouthed, gasping. When Artemisia finally uncoils to step towards Themistokles, she presses her fingers to his mouth and he sucks them in gratefully, licking them clean, drinking down the last of her taste. 

"My sweet pet," Artemisia sighs, and laughs again as Themistokles nips her reproachfully, even sated and dulled as he feels now. "You are right, of course. Breaking you would be a waste." 

She steps back to the map on her desk, bending briefly to gather the fallen ships, and settling the models back into their positions. "I will not," Themistokles begins, though it takes all his determination even to speak. "I-"

"Yes, I know," Artemisia smiles lazily, without looking up. "Guards!" 

Themistokles startles - they're both of them naked - even as Artemisia's silver-masked personal guard burst into the cabin. They glance at her, then at him, in their poise nothing but the alert stillness of guard dogs, nothing of sexual appreciation in the least - but _oh_ , Themistokles feels it now, and he thinks that they do too: her will, her immortal will. 

"Return the General to his men," Artemisia says distractedly, with a dismissive wave, and they haul him to his feet even as Themistokles makes a belated grab for his clothes. 

He manages to get dressed somewhere in his dazed, dream-like way back to the shore, and when Scyllias approaches him, concerned, asking him what he has learned, Themistokles blinks at him for a long, slow moment before he finds his tongue.

"She-" Themistokles hesitates. He can still _smell_ her on him, and no doubt Scyllias can too - Gods - her taste and her juices are still drying on his beard and face. Artemisia has marked him as boldly as if she had carved her name across his forehead. "She'll bring hell with her tomorrow," he finally says, and adds, quietly, "She is _hemithea_."

Scyllias jerks back, wide-eyed, and Themistokles pushes past, striding towards his tent. He'll have to wash his face. Several times.

II.

On the battlefield, Artemisia comes into her own: she strides into it like the Goddess that she is, and no man is safe from her blades or her bow. Still, Themistokles finds that he's surprised, after all, when she tries to kill him. Surprised, and shocked enough to feel oddly devastated, even as the ship blows up around him and he sinks into the sea, surrounded by the deceptive, dancing grace of the floating dead.

Instead of the dreams of blood and death that Themistokles expects at night as they retreat to Athens, however, he dreams of Artemisia. Seated on the throne of her flagship, her grace coiled, ready to spring. Blades in her hands. A bow, an arrow notched. It doesn't surprise Themistokles in the least that the dreams are not overtly sexual, although he still wakes aching in the morning for her: she has branded his very soul as hers.

III.

It's only natural that they meet again over the waves, locked in final combat. Surrounded by the stink of battle and buoyed by blood-thirst, Themistokles can resist Artemisia's will - barely - and they fight to a standstill, his strength against hers. Themistokles suspects that Artemisia has never really had to fight against an opponent whom she could not influence or bring to his knees: she's utterly unscathed from the brutal battle, even if her hands are red in blood to the elbows.

When Themistokles finally disarms her and demands her surrender, Artemisia laughs again, that high, harsh bark that he hears in his dreams, and he shivers. She gets slowly to her feet, still unarmed, and she is glorious. 

"You fight harder than you fuck," Artemisia says, and her tone is amused, rather than afraid. "My lion."

"I will be no one's slave," Themistokles retorts, "Even... even if the chain was held by you."

"Who was talking about slaves?" Artemisia asks archly, and he narrows his eyes.

"Even if you escape, Xerxes will surely kill you for your failure. Surrender."

"God-king as he may have become, he is still no _hemitheoi_ ," Artemisia says dismissively, even as she briefly eyes the oncoming Spartan fleet. " _Retreat!_ " she shouts to her men, "Disengage by any means possible!" 

Themistokles lunges for her, but Artemisia is faster - she's already dived off the ship, and in the mass of bodies and splintered wood he cannot see her for the matte black of her armour. Queen Gorgos shoots him an odd look when she boards the now-empty ship, but she says nothing, turning instead as the Persian forces attack.

IV.

The aftermath is... complicated. Athens rebuilds, but Themistokles knows better than to go back into politics. His brutal strategies may have united Greece and forced Xerxes into a retreat, but the cost has been great, and Queen Gorgos' open, continuing dislike of him is politically damaging.

Besides, Themistokles is tired of war and the small, petty-minded bickering of politicians. He's done what he set out to do in life, and fighting for scraps of power in what's left of Athens seems pointless. One afternoon, he packs what little he treasures into a saddlebag, dons a gray travel cloak rather than his blue, and rides out.

It takes Themistokles a while to get to Halicarnassus, because he takes the long route and avoids ships, but thankfully, one dusty traveller on a horse is mostly ignored now that Persia has stopped its incursions against Greece. Trade is tentatively springing up again, and the few towns he passes by are vaguely friendly. They tell him the ruined city is haunted. He does not care.

Artemisia is waiting for him at the gates, seemingly alone, her gray horse cropping grass to a side, its saddlebags full. She is lounging against a ruined block of stone, dressed in her black enamel and leather armour, high boots propped against a curl of rusting steel. She grins as she beckons at Themistokles, and he nearly stumbles in his haste to dismount.

"My lion, my love," Artemisia drawls, as Themistokles kneels beside her on the dirt; she curls an arm over his shoulders, petting his travel-worn cloak. "Look at you. The hero of Salamis." 

"I am glad to know that my humble status was not beneath your notice, O Queen of Caria," Themistokles says facetiously in response, and Artemisia rolls her eyes, her fingers curling lightly into his hair. "Rewards for battles duly lost?"

Artemisia's eyes narrow for a moment, then she sniffs. "One mistake does negate a lifetime of successful service. A reward long overdue, some would say."

"Or a token payment in the hopes that responsibility will clip your wings."

His Goddess shrugs, and waves a hand behind her. "I burned this city to the ground when I was eighteen, in command of my first contingent. Then I razed Rhodes when I was twenty-two, found the hoplites who had murdered my family and made my... displeasure known, very personally, over two weeks. Power is a tool, not a shackle." 

"Some would say that extending your vengeance towards _all_ the men of Greece was a little excessive," Themistokles says gently. 

"So I have begun to think," Artemisia notes, though her eyes narrow a little, considering him thoughtfully. "Why are you here?"

"You know why. Your spies have been watching me ever since I crossed your borders." He dared reach for her other gloved hand, though Themistokles doesn't kiss or clasp it the way he would an Athenian lady's: instead, he spreads her fingers and sets them lightly around his neck. Artemisia squeezes briefly, and a flush climbs up Themistokles' cheeks; then she laughs again as her grip loosens, and he breathes out a soft gasp of relief. 

"Then you are mine now," Artemisia tells him, and this time, Themistokles merely nods, as a thumb presses up and into his mouth. He has always been hers.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'll like to chat/discuss ficbunnies/etc I'm on twitter @manic_intent and tumblr at manic-intent.tumblr.com :3 Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to Arilee for the spot! Fic amended to include correct gender term of demigoddess.


End file.
